Friday, January 19, 2007

A nice cheery elephant stamp, in fact, and maybe a gold star as well. TN is chuffed today to hear that one of my posts has been chosen by Opinion Online in the Best Blogs of 2006 feature they're running all through January. Chris Bendall might not be so pleased: it is The Problem of Praise post that caused much debate at the time. And (whisper) I believe there's another coming up. Thanks to the guys who called it, Ken Parish, Nicholas Gruen et al. Especially Al.

Of course, this happens while the blog is relatively quiet. As you all know, I am supposed to be writing my novel, and have in fact been getting some steady chapters under my belt; but for the past couple of days I have been sidelined by an essay on Rilke for the UK poetry magazine Agenda, which is also publishing a couple of my translations of his Duino Elegies in its upcoming Rilke special issue. It's a blast to return to this poet, who reminds me what the lyric art is supposed to be: tough, beautiful, intelligent and brave.

Meanwhile, I've been following the Guardian debate on friendships between artists and critics, begun by Jonathan Jones' claim that artists and critics are too much in each other's pockets, and who wants to be friends with narcissistic wankers like artists, anyway? Michael Billington weighs in with some measured opinion, much of which is difficult to argue with, but visual arts critic Adrian Searle is on the money.

"I prefer the company of artists to that of most critics," says Searle. "Artists can more cruel about each other than any critic I have ever met, and just as hungry and insightful when it comes to looking at art. They know more about how art gets made, are sharper when comes to detecting when someone is faking it, and more generous about genuine failure." And his article comes with a sting in the tail: "although I am on amicable terms with some other critics, I realise I have no friends at all in the newspaper world. I take care to keep a distance, in case I get compromised or corrupted, or turned into a hack."

We whirr when no words swell silence hear noise and water no dead dream.

Flowers will golden like snow lily, hyacinth, summer colour of amaranth evenings and a lone call. Here liesbleeding the dream I grew in a yard of daisies glimpsed through the shabby window. Marigolds glowing onstalks bobbing a net of anemones inthe weed garden mostly. I neverdream of red - rise a seven-petalled head and weave the flower called wind Pliny named.